


Homes Sweet Holmes

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, warning for references to childhood physical abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As anyone who has done it knows, house hunting doesn't always go smoothly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homes Sweet Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Холмс, милый Холмс](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6415342) by [Bathilda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bathilda/pseuds/Bathilda)



> Heartfelt thanks to Beth H for her beta.

JULY-AUGUST 2009

When Lestrade realised he hadn't heard from Sherlock in the week since he and Mycroft had called at Sherlock's flat, he went round to see him after he left the Yard for the day.

A short red-faced man stood just outside the doorway to Sherlock's flat, quivering with impotent rage.

"...normal people don't behave like this! I've complained to the landlord. And I'm calling Environmental Health at the Council. The smells that come out of this place are unnatural!"

"On the contrary," drawled Sherlock, who was draped artistically in the doorway, an expression calculated to irritate in place, "they are all perfectly natural for decom - "

Lestrade deemed it prudent to intervene. No one needed to know about Sherlock's habit of experimenting on body parts from the morgue.

"Good evening, sir. Detective Inspector Lestrade. Is there a problem here?" he asked, producing his warrant card.

"I hope you've come to arrest him!"

"Then I'm afraid you're doomed to disappointment. This gentleman is a police consultant."

"On what, smells?" demanded the man, radiating disbelief.

"Need to know only, sir. If there's nothing more?"

Under a steely look from Lestrade, the man melted away, still muttering to himself.

"That was almost impressive," said Sherlock, moving out of the doorway to allow Lestrade in to the flat.

He immediately wrinkled his nose. "Oh, dear God. The smell in here _is_ disgusting. Open the windows. Then get rid of whatever it is or I'll call Environmental Health myself. If you don't want to find yourself kicked out of this place you'll need to clean up your act. "

"I don't understand what all the fuss is about. How else can I compare the decomposition rates of feet?"

Lestrade held up a hand in warning. "Don't tell me any more. I don't want to have to arrest you."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's all perfectly legal." But Sherlock failed to meet Lestrade's gaze.

"So if I ring up Bart's mortuary, they'll know all about it?"

"Well, I wouldn't say Molly _knows_ exactly. But the students had finished dissecting them. It isn't as if I intend to keep them when the experiment's over."

Lestrade looked wary. "And what are you planning to do with them?"

"Take them back of course. Really, Lestrade. What did you imagine I would do with them?"

Lestrade had the sense to leave the subject alone.

"Why are you here? Do you have another case for me?" added Sherlock eagerly.

"Nothing that would interest you. I wanted a word. I haven't heard from you since the day you confirmed that Mycroft and I are in a relationship," said Lestrade steadily. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Oh, please. You're having sex. Where's the interest in that," dismissed Sherlock, before his head rose from the lens of his microscope. "Incidentally, was that childish prank with the hairs in the bedding your idea?"

"You didn't imagine it was Mycroft's?"

"Of course not. He doesn't have a sense of humour," dismissed Sherlock.

The authority in Sherlock's pronouncement made Lestrade give a small, private smile. "If you say so."

He sustained Sherlock's irritable glare without difficulty.

"Are you asking for my approval?" Sherlock sounded oddly off-balance.

"I don't care one way or the other," said Lestrade, even though he knew that wasn't strictly true, "except in so far as it affects Mycroft. If you say or do anything to compromise his safety, or ability to do his job, you and I are finished. And my private life is still off limits to you and my team. Don't let your spite towards Mycroft lead you in to any vicious comments. Clear?"

Sherlock eyed him with surprise. "You're serious!"

"You think I'd joke about Mycroft's safety?"

Sherlock waved away the irrelevance. "What happens to our working relationship when you and Mycroft are no longer having sex?"

Lestrade studied the grubby carpet and counted to seven before he trusted his control to hold. Sherlock could no more help being Sherlock...

"You keep my private life private and nothing changes," he promised.

"You don't have much confidence in the longevity of your - "

" _Enough_!" Lestrade's tone was the one which even Donovan didn't argue with. "It's not up for discussion."

"What a fuss you're making about nothing. It's you who should be wary. Mycroft's bedmates never last for more than a few weeks."

Lestrade's outrage evaporated when he realised that, in his own way, Sherlock was concerned for him. "So he told me," he said calmly. "It's fine."

He found himself under an intense scrutiny.

"Well, well," said Sherlock eventually, an expression on his face that Lestrade wasn't sure how to interpret. "My brother must have hidden depths."

"Everyone does. Even you. Though it's probably more a murky puddle in your case."

That earned him a fleeting smile. "Go away. You're interrupting my work. Did I mention that I've had a case? Of my own," Sherlock added, failing to sound modest.

"Yeah? Excellent. That website you set up is paying dividends. Hang on, is the case anything I should know about?" asked Lestrade with suspicion.

"It was in Hampshire."

"Did you play nicely with the local police?"

"It was a puzzle, not a crime."

"Uh huh. So no contact with the police at all?"

"Oh, they were hanging around, making nuisances of themselves. Mycroft saw to them for me."

Lestrade made a mental note to ask Mycroft for details because Sherlock's ideas of what constituted a crime were elastic at best. According to Mycroft, Sherlock had once wanted to let a jewel thief go because he thought the man was a pathetic worm - never mind the fact he'd nicked a honking great diamond and tried to frame someone else.

"Did you solve the case?"

"Of course. It was hardly a challenge. I must say, the Detective Inspector was even slower-witted than you."

"Thank you," said Lestrade dryly. His acquaintance with Sherlock was teaching him to take his compliments where he could find them.

"Why are you thanking me? The man was an idiot. If you're staying you might make some tea."

"Dream on," said Lestrade. "And get rid of those feet."

Back out on Montague Street, the humid air reeked of diesel from the traffic jam, but it still smelled sweeter than the air in Sherlock's flat.

oOo

There were few things Mycroft enjoyed more than negotiating when he knew he was going to get his own way. By the time he finished his phone call and emerged from the bedroom, looking sleekly pleased with himself, Lestrade was fast asleep on the sofa. He looked so peaceful that Mycroft was reluctant to disturb him; he'd spent enough nights on it himself to know how comfortable it was. But this was the second time this week Gregory had been unable to come to bed.

Much as he liked this flat - or perhaps it was just his fondness for the flat's owner - the place was too small, not to mention too far from Whitehall. They both needed offices, and a second bathroom would be useful in the mornings; he loathed having to rush through his morning rituals.

He had said nothing because this was Gregory's home and he didn't want to appear to disparage it in any way.

Mycroft refocused to find Lestrade smiling up at him.

"Call over?" asked Lestrade, pushing himself up into a sitting position and running a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry it took so long. Have you finally finished deciphering those notebooks on the Roman case?"

"Yeah. Nothing of real use. Just a couple of rumours. Reg was thorough, I'll give him that."

"You have good instincts, trust them," said Mycroft, perching beside him. "What rumours?"

"That the older boy who died was Colin, not Roger. Viola, the sister was too hysterical to make much sense. She was never questioned properly," said Lestrade critically.

Mycroft nodded, a distant look to him betraying that his mind was elsewhere. "Who identified the bodies?"

"Colin and Viola. None of the neighbours claimed to know the family well enough to make the formal identifications. It's common enough for people not to want to get involved. Particularly not in such gruesome murders," dismissed Lestrade with a shrug.

"One thought occurs. Didn't schools in those days take photographs of the entire school? A panoramic shot."

"Good God, yes. I'd forgotten those. Anthea or David might attract too much notice trying to track those down at the school," Lestrade added with would-be guile.

"You've been itching to get involved," recognised Mycroft with a faint smile.

"I just want to know whether I've been hating the right bloke all these years. Have they had any joy with the council?" 

"Records for the period were lost in a fire."

"Convenient," said Lestrade.

"Very. It was arson. Ten years ago now. The police case was never solved. They assumed it was the work of a teenage gang. The fire was started with a can of petrol."

"What about the NHS? Babies get born in hospitals."

"Given that the family had only moved to Hackney recently, we have no idea where the children were born. We've also been checking the staff of cabinet ministers. None match the picture of the man you knew as Col Armon, or Colin Moran - or possibly Roger Moran. Have you thought about involving Sherlock?" Mycroft asked with a degree of wariness.

"Thought, yes. But there's no point," sighed Lestrade. "He's amazing on details at a crime scene, less so when it comes to plodding procedural work. This case is going nowhere."

"No, I'm afraid it isn't. You said 'rumours'."

"Oh, yeah. The other is that there were twin baby boys, identity and whereabouts of the second unknown. Colin and his sister denied all knowledge and social services of the day had no record of them. Nor did any of the doctor's surgeries," added Lestrade as he scratched his stomach. "Call off Anthea and David. I'll make some routine enquiries at the school the Roman kids went to for photos. There are those programmes where you can take a kid's face and age it to see what the adult will look like."

"You find the photos, I can organise that," said Mycroft. "In the meantime, it's nearly two in the morning. There's nothing you can do now. So let me take you to bed and apologise."

Lestrade frowned. "For what?"

"Anything you like," said Mycroft, who wanted to give Gregory something more pleasant to fall asleep on than memories of the man who had made his childhood such a misery.

Lestrade grinned and took the hand Mycroft extended to him. Once on his feet, he gave a leisurely stretch that was all the more pleasurable to see because he was naked except for his black boxers and a wrist watch. 

"We could do with an office," he said, as he stared at the boxes of papers relating to the homeless cases. "What do you think of putting up something in the garden?"

The expression on Mycroft's face was answer enough.

"What was I thinking," grinned Lestrade. "Well, come on then. I expect a lengthy and grovelling apology from you."

"Noted."

The following morning Lestrade was exuding the lazy well-being of the sexually satisfied when he went off to work, attracting looks of loathing from those less fortunate.

oOo

"Flowers? You shouldn't have." Still showing the signs of the brutal hours he had worked this week, Mycroft eyed the lavish bouquet with puzzlement. "Where on earth did you get that at this time of the morning?"

"If you'd had more than two hours sleep in the last forty eight, you would have spotted them soaking in the kitchen sink. They're for Len's Annie. To say thank you for all the fantastic food, the shopping, and everything else they do," said Lestrade, who had got up at this unearthly hour so they could have a little time together while they were both awake.

Mycroft looked mildly chagrined. "Ah. Is there any chance we could pretend they were from both of us?"

"Make it worth my while," said Lestrade, handing Mycroft his tea.

"Of course, you've already thought of that. Thank you. I would like nothing better than to make it up to you but unfortunately I've wall-to-wall meetings for the next four days. By the time I fly home I suspect that while the spirit will be willing..."

"You can owe me," said Lestrade generously. "Can you sleep on the flight out?"

"The problem will be to keep me awake. I'm fine. Just not very hungry," Mycroft added as he eyed the dish of porridge topped with blueberries set in front of him.

"I'm over-compensating," recognised Lestrade. "Will you have a chance to call?"

"The time difference will be against us."

"Call anyway. Or text. Whatever."

"I will," Mycroft promised, as he pushed porridge around the dish. They had established a system where, if time was short, he simply texted Gregory with his initial. It seemed a small thing to give Gregory peace of mind.

"I've been meaning to ask. How much trouble did Sherlock cause down in Hampshire?" asked Lestrade.

"None, beyond offending everyone he met. Don't look so horrified. I had no calls to bail him out, so I presume it all went splendidly."

"Touch wood when you say that," scolded Lestrade. "You don't have him under surveillance?"

Mycroft gave a hard-done-by sigh. "Of course I do. But CCTV only. Um, while I'm away...?"

"Of course I'll keep an eye on him."

Mycroft nodded his thanks, just before he fished out his phone. "I must go," he said a moment later.

"You'll be safe?"

Mycroft lied to him without a qualm.

Because Mycroft had enough to worry about, Lestrade allowed him to believe he had got away with it. 

oOo

Lestrade fumbled for his phone in the dark and mumbled his name.

"Happy birthday," said a familiar voice. "I had hoped to be home for it."

"S okay. I've never been in the habit of celebrating. I'd forgotten," Lestrade admitted cheerfully, as he pushed himself up against the pillows. "You all right?"

"Fine. Bored," Mycroft admitted a beat later.

"Ah, now I know why you rang in the middle of the night."

"Damn, I forgot the time difference," said Mycroft with chagrin. "Go back to sleep."

"Sod off," said Lestrade amiably. "Call this conversation your birthday present to me."

"I know what I'd rather give you."

"Where would I park an Aston Martin?"

"You don't even own a car," said Mycroft, declining to rise to the bait.

"No point when you live and work in Central London. I'll let you off then. How come you're free for this chat?"

"I'm not. I had to leave the conference to take a call and took advantage of the fact to make this one. I really should go back."

"Yeah. You know what I'd really like as a late birthday present when you get back? Us to have a private celebration. You to fuck me, then a feast of your bacon sarnies."

There was a short silence.

"So a trip around the engine room of the former Battersea Power Station has no interest?" said Mycroft blandly.

Lestrade whooped his delight down the phone.

"That would be a 'yes', then. It's arranged for Saturday. A private tour. Only I'm not sure if I'll be home in time. I'll have the papers delivered to you. You can tell me about it when I get back," said Mycroft, as if he didn't know he would have to suffer a word by word account whether he was there or not.

"You'd do anything to get out of touring around another engine room, wouldn't you," said Lestrade fondly. "That's brilliant! Though I'd still rather have you."

"Very gratifying but I wouldn't care to pit my charms against those of Battersea. I'll call when I can. I must go. Love you." 

Lestrade sighed, just before he grinned to himself and began to text. 

Happy to wait for tour until you get back. Love G.

The reply was waiting for him when he woke up four hours later.

To use language I've become distressingly familiar with over the last few months, don't be a dick. Love, Mycroft.

oOo

"I don't think I've ever walked through this area before." Lestrade looked unimpressed as they left Ebury Street behind them and headed deeper into Belgravia. "It's got an odd atmosphere. You can almost smell the money."

"Hardly surprising," said Mycroft, amused by Gregory's dismissal of one of the most expensive areas in the world.

"Once you're away from the restaurants, the only people you do see look like underpaid staff - who are probably here illegally - or security. There were some worrying looking blokes near - "

"They work for a Russian oligarch," cut in Mycroft.

"I suppose most of these places are owned by the Grosvenor Estate," mused Lestrade.

Mycroft gave a peculiar grimace. "Not all. Some are owned by the Vernet Estate. Quite in a few, in fact."

"I've not heard of them."

"Actually," Mycroft grimaced again, "Sherlock and I own the property company."

"Sherlock!"

"It will come as no surprise to learn he takes no interest whatsoever, so long as he has enough money to buy those ludicrously expensive clothes of his."

"Pot, kettle," pointed out Lestrade, before he looked faintly worried. "But that means you're rich," he accused.

Mycroft shrugged. "I would apologise but, to be frank, I don't believe I would enjoy being poor. You must have realised I'm not reliant on my salary."

"I suppose. But there's rich, and then there's owning bits of Belgravia! How do you have time to do whatever it is someone owning a property company does?"

"I hire people to run it," Mycroft pointed out. "Our maternal uncle left the estate to us. I've lived in various houses owned by the estate because they were convenient for work. 

"Wonderful, it's starting to rain," he added with distaste, flicking open his black umbrella.

"Wow, it really is an umbrella."

"I do believe you're disappointed."

"I hadn't given up hope of a sword stick," Lestrade admitted.

"Are you sure you want to mock the man offering to share his much derided umbrella?"

It was still just light enough to see the sky; one look suggested these first drops were the prelude to a hefty downpour. Lestrade sidled under shelter, while Mycroft made a brief phone call.

"Jane informs me the car has broken down and that it will take thirty minutes to get a replacement here - always assuming traffic isn't gridlocked because of the weather. As there isn't a taxi in sight and we've left the hotels of Ebury Street behind us desperate measures are called for." By this time Mycroft's tone was the only dry thing, rain thumping against the umbrella and bouncing up off the pavement with a stinging force. 

He redialled, said something Lestrade couldn't hear above the thunder of the rain, before striding off. Despite the umbrella, both men were already soaked, their trousers clinging soggily to their legs. The temperature plummeted as rain turned to hail. His arm tucked in Mycroft's, Lestrade had no idea where they were going. A couple of minutes later he was bundled up six white stone steps and found himself in front of a grand portico, flanked by immense stone pillars. The door opened to reveal a bedraggled looking Fatima, who was shuddering with the cold.

"The h-house isn't s-secure yet, sir."

"No one in their right minds would stay here if they don't have to," Mycroft said, as he and Lestrade brushed past her and shut the door.

The sound as it closed echoed.

Lestrade stared around in disbelief. The hall was so large it could have swallowed his entire flat. Nothing on the white stucco exterior had prepared him for this blatant statement of wealth. The vast staircase, pillars and floor were pale marble coloured with streaks in a vile shade of liver. Gold leaf decorated every available surface, that combined with lots of overly ornate metal-work and a ceiling covered in lurid frescos left him musing wistfully on the simple comfort of his flat.

"This is cosy." Lestrade bent to wring moisture from the ankles of his trousers, before taking off his sodden jacket and doing the same with that.

Mycroft looked pained. "No wonder your jackets have such a short life. Fatima, shower and change. Help yourself to anything from my wardrobe. Use the shower off the master bedroom - it's the only one that's been tested for safety. Don't take long or Gregory and I will freeze to death."

"Which room is the master?" said Fatima.

"Third floor, fifth on the right," said Mycroft.

As she squelched up the staircase, he turned to Lestrade. "Now to try and locate the kitchen, which I believe is in the basement."

"This place is - "

" - hideous. I know."

"Then why choose it?" Lestrade hurried after him down a wide corridor to the left. Half-open doors offered views of huge, dingy rooms.

"It was Anthea's choice. She was displeased about something I'd done - or not done. It's a regular occurrence so the exact details escape me."

Lestrade made a mental note to have a word with Anthea. "And you couldn't be bothered to change?"

"Once I saw the place, I put my belongings back in storage. Thanks to you, I've only spent a couple of nights here. As you can see, there's the odd piece of furniture. I wonder where the controls to the heating are?"

"Probably in the boiler room. This must be the staircase down to the basement. Blimey," exclaimed Lestrade as they went down the distinctly unglamorous stairs and into a different world. The corridor was narrow, with cracked lino on the floor, flickering fluorescent lights and dingy paintwork. It smelt musty and damp and there were numerous meanly proportioned rooms whose function wasn't immediately obvious. "I hope you're leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. I'm lost."

"Eidetic memory," Mycroft reminded him. Because he had never ventured below stairs before, it took them a while to locate the kitchen.

Lestrade stared at the tiny room full of shabby Formica and ancient appliances. The smell of damp was even stronger here. 

"Annie must really love you to have put up with this," he said with conviction.

"People do, I'm told."

"Inexplicable," said Lestrade, patting Mycroft's backside. 

"That's Annie's opinion too," said Mycroft mournfully.

Lestrade gave a dawning grin. "You're scared of her."

"Not at all. Just..." Mycroft gave a rueful sigh. "Annie believes in speaking her mind. And given that she's known me since I was eleven, speaks it regularly. I've known Len even longer. He and Annie married when I was twelve."

"Don't use that kettle, the wires in the lead are exposed. We'll use a saucepan."

Water set to boil, Lestrade went off to find the controls for the central heating. Loud clanking five minutes later suggested he'd had a degree of success, although he was wearing a few cobwebs on his return.

"Just how big is this place?" Lestrade demanded.

Mycroft looked around from checking the cupboards. "Sixteen bedrooms."

"A family of twelve would rattle round in here, never mind one man. You deserve better than this," added Lestrade.

Mycroft shot him a curious look, wondering what had so angered him. "As I recall, I have far better - in West Kensington." He took a deep breath. "Although I confess, much as I like your flat, I wonder if we might want somewhere a little larger in the long term."

"I've been thinking the same thing," conceded Lestrade. "I'll put the flat on the market. What?" he added with a trace of belligerence, when he saw Mycroft visibly thinking about what to say.

"It might be prudent for you to retain it."

"For when we have a domestic?" 

"So that, as far as your colleagues are concerned, it remains your place of residence. Should they become aware of my sphere of influence, and our relationship, there's a danger they would assume your success hasn't been earned."

Lestrade shrugged. "Let 'em. I'm hardly a high-flyer. So it has nothing to do with the fact that you know I couldn't afford the door knocker of any place you bought?"

Mycroft wheeled around. "D'you imagine I give a fuck about that?"

Lestrade blinked. Mycroft rarely betrayed anger, or even seemed to become irritated, preferring to negotiate his way to an inevitable victory. 

"No," Lestrade sighed, touching Mycroft on the arm, "I know you don't. That was just my pride having a spasm at the thought of being a kept man."

Mycroft exhaled slowly and leant against the chipped sink. "Then we should stay in West Kensington. Where you've been keeping me all these months."

"That was sneaky. I suppose I could sub-let my flat. We don't have to live in Belgravia, do we?" Lestrade added, sounding as pathetic as if he was being threatened with a derelict slum.

"We can live wherever you like. Though closer to Whitehall would mean later starts most mornings."

Lestrade grinned. "And therefore more time for sex. Sold. We'd better start house-hunting then."

Mycroft rubbed the back of his neck. "Time being at a premium, Anthea usually - "

"How about if I lend her a helping hand? We'll make a short-list and you can choose. Do you want something like this? Not this bit. Up top."

"Good God no. You might prefer a river apartment," suggested Mycroft, before he shivered and added: "If Fatima's finished in my bathroom we can shower and change."

"We could just go home."

"In that?" Mycroft gestured to the wind-lashed rain flooding down the windows outside. "With this kind of storm there'll be drains blocked, flooding and gridlocked traffic. One night here won't hurt."

Lestrade looked unconvinced.

When Fatima appeared, her five feet three inches drowned in six foot one inch Mycroft's shirt and sweater, Lestrade immediately warned her off the coffee. "Oh, and there's no food."

"My day just keeps getting better," she sighed.

"Choose a bedroom. Best of luck finding anywhere comfortable," added Mycroft heartlessly. "And before you blame me, I should like to remind you that Anthea selected this house."

Fatima gave him a warm grin. "I'll take it up with her, sir. Sleep well."

"What made you drop Anthea in it?" asked Lestrade curiously as they headed up the stairs.

"Natural viciousness," said Mycroft promptly.

"Attaboy," said Lestrade, before he shivered. "This house gives me the willies. Everything echoes."

"Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly - otherwise known as my bedroom," said Mycroft, opening the door with an ironic flourish.

The room was well over forty feet wide and held one small radiator and a monumental fireplace. The only item of furniture was a canopied four poster bed, which looked merely old, rather than antique, and the silk hangings had began to shatter. The carpet was too threadbare to tell what colour it must have been.

"Where are your clothes?" Lestrade's voice echoed in the vastness.

"I use the bedroom through that door as a dressing room."

"Didn't want to feel cramped?" asked Lestrade dryly.

"Didn't want Len getting a double hernia trying to move the wardrobes. This is even worse than I remembered," Mycroft admitted. "We can brave the storm if you'd rather."

"No," said Lestrade shivering. "I'm cold enough as it is. Come on, we can shower together."

"We could certainly stand in the cubicle together, moving is more problematical. You take the first shower. It's the least I can do."

"Damn straight," said Lestrade hard-heartedly.

 

"I've seen cheerier morgues," said Lestrade, as he emerged from the chilly hell of the bathroom, swathed in Mycroft's too long pyjamas and a bathrobe.

"I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I," recognised Mycroft with resignation. 

"Never's a long time." Lestrade propped himself in the doorway of the bathroom to watch Mycroft shower, then broke it to him that he would have to dry himself on a sheet.

Mycroft, who was as fastidious as a cat when it came to his personal grooming, was still muttering to himself as they approached the bed.

"Sleep well here, do you?" Lestrade studied the bed with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

"I might have guessed you would kick a man when he's down. As it happens, no." The end of Mycroft's long nose was still pink with the cold.

"I'm not surprised. I'd be expecting something unpleasant to creep down out of that canopy."

Mycroft looked pained. "Now, thanks to you, so will I."

"Then my work here is done." Lestrade's eyes widened as he was tumbled onto the sagging mattress. "What are you doing?"

"What a ridiculous question." 

Lestrade was just sliding his hand under the waist of Mycroft's silk pyjamas when he tensed. "I swear I just saw something move up in the canopy."

"Don't be absurd," said Mycroft, with an authority which was undermined when, with an ugly ripping sound, the canopy began to tear free of its moorings.

Lestrade pushed Mycroft off the bed just in time.

Winded, because Gregory had landed on top of him, and coughing because of the clouds of dust and debris, Mycroft rubbed his watering eyes, inadvertently smearing more dirt over his face. It was some time before he was in any state to study the ruin of the bed and the rotten wooden frame, which could have brained them.

"You're going to say 'I told you so', aren't you?" he said, one hand protectively cupping the back of Lestrade's head.

"Right after I thank you for a lovely evening."

His eyes streaming, Lestrade gave a lush sniff and wiped his running nose on the back of his hand. There were smudges of dirt on his forehead and cheek, and Mycroft didn't care to investigate what that might be lurking in his hair, but he kissed him anyway.

Then he rang Anthea, who arranged a suite at Claridges, and a courtesy car to collect them.

"Over-compensating?" asked Lestrade, who had to suck in his breath in order to fasten the pair of Mycroft's trousers he had been forced to wear. With resignation he bent to fold up the bottoms. But at least the shirt and cashmere sweater meant he was warm.

"You could have been seriously hurt," said Mycroft flatly.

"So could you. Or a humungous spider could have dropped on top of us. But neither thing happened. I look like a clown in these trousers," Lestrade added ruefully.

Mycroft tugged him closer. "You look fuckable."

His hair still damp after his second shower, Lestrade grinned. "Keep that thought in mind. Are we going to sneak out and leave Fatima here?"

"I admire your optimism. Er, did I think to mention that she'll be sharing our suite at Claridges?"

"In that case I'd best not make too much noise," said Lestrade cheerfully, before his expression changed. "You're serious?"

Mycroft gave a rueful nod.

"Then you can resign yourself to celibacy," said Lestrade, in the tone which Mycroft was learning there was no arguing with.

He gently tweaked the collar of the shirt Lestrade was wearing.

"Absolutely not," said Lestrade.

Mycroft slid his thumb along Lestrade's collar bone and bent to offer the most delicate of kisses.

Lestrade was still grumbling about Mycroft's underhand tactics the following morning, until he was called out to the senseless murder of a teenage boy in a knife attack.

Sherlock was so bored that he went with him, but even then it took five days to produce a case that would satisfy the Crown Prosecution Service. 

 

As soon as he had cleared the outstanding paperwork, Lestrade rang Anthea.

"Moneypenny, it's Greg Lestrade. I'd like a word. At your earliest convenience. This evening would be good for me." While pleasant, his tone was uncompromising.

"The matter can't be dealt with over the phone?"

"If it could, I wouldn't be suggesting a meeting. Seven thirty, the bar at the St. Ermin."

 

Lestrade chose a table in a deserted corner, where they could both sit with their backs to the wall while they watched the room. Not for the first time, he felt like a bit-part player in a second-rate spy film.

He rose to his feet as Anthea approached the table; she looked elegant and unapproachable in a little black suit, ridiculously high heels and patently little else.

He got to the point as soon as the waiter had brought over their drinks.

"I expect it seemed amusing to foist that mausoleum onto Mycroft. I'm surprised you didn't want him to spend what little free time he has relaxing in comfort. The other night, the canopy of the bed we were occupying collapsed. If I hadn't seen it move he could have been seriously hurt."

"I know, I saw the damage," she said colourlessly.

Lestrade counted to three, reminded himself she wasn't one of his people and kept hold of his temper.

"Mycroft's going to buy a permanent home. You and I will do the bulk of the work - which is to say, you will. I've made up a list of our requirements. As far as I'm concerned, the most important thing is that it be safe. Once you've make up a short-list, you and I will inspect them." Abruptly Lestrade lost any pretence of patience with the beautiful, blank-faced woman opposite him. "He might be prepared to tolerate your jokes, I'm not. He deserved better. What the hell were you thinking?"

Anthea took a sip of her tonic water and a slice. "I was thinking that if he had a home that awful, he would be grateful for any chance to avoid it," she said bluntly.

Lestrade stared at her for a moment before he groaned his comprehension. "You've been bloody well interfering, haven't you? Does he know?"

While brief, her look of horror betrayed her.

"Well, unless you want him to find out you've been playing Cupid, I suggest you find him the best house in London. Nothing flashy. Convenient for Whitehall - preferably within walking distance, because some days that'll be the only exercise he gets. I want this sorted quickly and without fuss. And next time he pisses you off...suck it up." Lestrade rose to his feet. "Do you make a habit of interfering in his private life?"

"Until last November Mr Holmes didn't have a private life worth mentioning."

"Which meant you didn't either."

"That's part of the reason."

"And the other part?"

"He was working himself into the ground," she said simply.

Lestrade gave her a considering look and slowly relaxed. He didn't see that much of Anthea, and so had no way of knowing how good her relationship was with Mycroft - unlike David and Fatima, both of whom he trusted implicitly to keep Mycroft safe.

"Fair enough," he conceded.

"My name is Balasha Costaganza," she offered. "And this is my private number."

Lestrade stared at the screen of his BlackBerry. 

"We do what we can to lighten his load," she added. 

While he wasn't insecure, Lestrade was tempted to ask if she thought he helped to do the same.

"Of course you do," said Anthea, as if he had posed the question.

Lestrade gave another heartfelt groan. "I'm just getting used to Mycroft reading my mind, don't you start."

 

Anthea contacted him about houses the next day.

"That was quick," said Lestrade with suspicion.

"I've been keeping an eye on several places for just this eventuality."

"No one likes a clever clogs. Though I suppose you wouldn't be working for Mycroft if you were like us mere mortals. What've you got?"

"There are possibilities in Belgravia, Mayfair and Chelsea, although the commute from the latter could be tiresome because of the level of traffic. The pick of the bunch is a house at Queen Anne's Gate. It has by far the best security - with the bonus that it's opposite St. James's Park, across Birdcage Walk."

"There are residential homes down Birdcage Walk?" said Lestrade incredulously.

"Backing onto. And as rare as hen's teeth."

"Tell me about the security," he commanded.

"It's at a higher level than we usually have in place for Mr Holmes. Blast-proof windows and exterior doors, and a panic room on the ground floor."

"Shouldn't buildings in that area be listed?"

"Unquestionably. A deal must have been done somewhere down the line because this one isn't. For the last forty years the house has been in the ownership of a minor member of the Saudi royal family. The house was built in 1704. Three floors, plus basement and attics. Well-proportioned, spacious rooms with good light and beautiful, working fireplaces. The oak staircase is particularly fine. There's also a lift."

"For our declining years?" enquired Lestrade dryly.

"Forward planning, sir. There are four bedrooms. The master has two bathrooms and two dressing rooms. Apart from the kitchen in the basement, there's also a kitchen diner, next to the family room on the first floor. The library and music room take up most of the ground floor. Two of the bedrooms would make excellent offices. It also comes with a small staff house for Len and Annie that's a seven minute walk away."

"Will Annie like it?"

"I can't imagine anyone not liking it," said Anthea. 

 

Lestrade studied the exterior of the brick-built terraced house with its high, elegant windows and battled a sense of unreality, this far removed from any of his past experiences of home buying. Then he glanced up and gave a smile of delight. As he and Anthea went round the house he could to see Mycroft in every room. Himself, too. The house was spacious, light, elegant, safe - but more than all that, it felt like a home.

He rang Mycroft as soon as he got back to the flat.

"Were you asleep?" 

"It's fine," said Mycroft, swallowing a yawn.

"As soon as you get home there's a house you have to see."

"Do you like it?"

"That's not the point. This is about you."

"This is about us. Do you like it?"

"It's gorgeous. Everything we talked about and more. Fantastic security. It even has a courtyard garden - forty feet or so." Lestrade didn't stop talking about the house for over fifteen minutes.

 

SEPTEMBER

Mycroft flew into Brize Norton on a military transport, in the company of senior military personnel, so most of the flight was taken up with further discussions. When they landed, he headed for his car, and immediately fished in his briefcase for the packet of cigarettes he always carried for the times when his self-control wasn't enough.

The heat shimmering on the airfield surface, he stood and smoked two cigarettes in quick succession, squinting in the bright light of midday, although the heat was far less brutal than that in Kabul. Then he lit a third, wondering how he could have been so stupid.

_Actions speak louder than words._

He should have remembered the cliché. Instead of relying on his skills to persuade Gregory, he had behaved like an arrogant fool.

His working life was all about communication. He understood the power of words; he wielded them every day to shape world events as he bent people to his will. Words to flatter, coax, encourage and persuade. And when it was necessary, he used words as weapons - and if that failed, actual weapons usually did the trick.

But none of his expertise was going to help him now. 

He wasn't accustomed to making mistakes, so it had taken him a while to appreciate the magnitude of his misjudgment. He was even less used to explaining himself, let alone apologising. Now he had to do both and he hadn't got a clue how to go about it. He had put off either until he was face to face with Gregory and had just run out of excuses to postpone the inevitable reckoning.

More than anything, he was afraid he was going to lose everything.

 

Their exploration of the house had got no farther than the entrance hall.

Mycroft turned his attention from the sinuous curve of the beautiful oak staircase to Gregory's face, which wore an expression of exuberant delight.

"Before we see any more of the house could we sit for a moment," said Mycroft, folding his long legs as he perched on a polished stair-tread. "I've a confession to make."

"Oh, this can't be good," joked Lestrade. But his expression was guarded when he sat beside Mycroft. "What is it?" he asked gently, when Mycroft, who looked drawn and preoccupied, didn't say anything more.

With untypical hesitancy, Mycroft said, "I made a decision which should have been made by both of us and compound that mistake by..." He shrugged and trailed off into silence.

Lestrade nodded in encouragement and took hold of Mycroft's hand. The long fingers curled around his, holding on tightly, as if to a lifeline.

"Once I realised we would be living together on a permanent basis - "

"Romantically put," interjected Lestrade dryly.

Mycroft sighed, the interruption doing nothing for his confidence. "When I accepted that I had fallen deeply in love with you - "

"I'm liking the confession so far," Lestrade prompted, when he had finally stopped kissing Mycroft because, unusually, he'd had very little of his attention. "I _knew_ you were a closet romantic."

"I never used to be."

"Self-deception is a wonderful thing. It was just hidden under some very fine tailoring. What is it you should have told me?" Lestrade added, serious now because he had realised that Mycroft - _Mycroft_ \- was nervous.

"Your work on the homeless cases made me appreciate that we would need somewhere larger to live. I asked Anthea to find somewhere suitable and this is the result."

Lestrade's head shot up. "When?"

"Weeks ago. I've never felt an emotional attachment to anywhere I've lived until I saw this house. I knew you would love it too."

"You've already bought it," recognised Lestrade, emotion flattened from his voice as he experienced a sickening lurch of disappointment at being so excluded.

"Worse than that," said Mycroft, looking down. "Far worse. Do you remember the batch of papers I got you to sign at the beginning of August - I told you it was a request for a parking permit?"

All traces of warmth were being frozen out from Lestrade's face. "Yeah. What else did I sign?"

"I took advantage of the fact you never check anything I hand you. You also signed the contract which completed the sale on this house. Of which we are now joint owners," Mycroft added with deliberation.

Lestrade wrenched his hand free from Mycroft's and was on his feet. "You did..."

He wheeled away, only to stalk back to loom over Mycroft. "You can't fucking well make all my decisions for me! You lied. You tricked me into..." His roughened voice cracked as he stumbled into silence.

"You lied," he whispered, betrayal stark on his face.

"Yes," said Mycroft, looking up and wincing when he saw Gregory's expression. "It's the stupidest, most arrogant act of my life. And I'm truly sorry for it. By the time I appreciated what I'd done I was out of the country. I tried to stop the documents from reaching my solicitors but the time difference meant I was too late because I'd already ensured the purchase would be expedited. Money pays for almost everything," he said tiredly. His face stripped of artifice, he looked worn to the bone, as if the weight of recent days was suddenly pressing down on him. 

"Including me?" asked Lestrade with a dangerous calm.

Mycroft winced. "Of course not. But you do have this preoccupation with the difference between our financial situations. I didn't discuss the purchase with you because I was afraid you would think the disparity in our income matters."

"You condescending prick! It matters to me that I'm not bought and paid for!" said Lestrade, his temper finally slipping its leash. "You tricked me into something you knew I would never agree to if you'd consulted me!"

"Yes," said Mycroft. "And I'm sorry. I was so focussed on finding the perfect home for us that I - "

" - treated me like a problem that had to be solved. You treated me as if I was your work! How fucking dare you!" yelled Lestrade. "Do you even want us to live together?"

"There's nothing I want more," said Mycroft simply. He parted his hands in a gesture eloquent of emptiness. "It's why I...snatched. I am so very sorry." 

"Not half as sorry as I am! I'm selling the flat and you _will_ accept the procedes."

Mycroft opened his mouth, visibly thought the better of what he had been about to say and nodded. "As you wish," he said colourlessly.

"Oh, for - Don't you bloody dare! I refuse to be turned into the villan!" exploded Lestrade, flinging out his arms and narrowly missing colliding with Mycroft as he rose awkwardly to his feet.

Mycroft flinched, then froze.

It stopped Lestrade in his tracks. That flinch, slight as it had been, told him all he needed to know - confirmed something he had already suspected. He had seen that wary expectation of hurt too often to mistake it. First in himself, on other boys at the Home, and later on victims of domestic abuse. He immediately took a step back, parting his hands in reassurance, his gaze never leaving Mycroft's pale face.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice level and slow, even if his breathing wasn't. 

"For what?" But Mycroft's shoulders were so tense that they were almost up around his ears and he was avoiding Lestrade's eyes.

"For making you believe I would hit you," said Lestrade baldly.

The muscles around Mycroft's eyes tightened again. "You're over-dramatising."

"I'd like to think I am, but I know I'm not. Just so you know, I don't use violence. Ever."

"It never occurred to me that you would," said Mycroft irritably, his body language already easing. "You startled me when your hand moved so fast, that's all."

Lestrade nodded. "I've had that reaction myself in the past. Funny how memory plays tricks on us. Were you a kid when it happened too?" he added, careful to keep his tone matter of fact.

The silence lasted for twenty three seconds; he counted them out.

Mycroft finally looked up and nodded and he looked so lost that Lestrade couldn't stand it any more.

"Oh, love..." About to offer the hug Mycroft looked in desperate need of, Lestrade paused. His eyes closed in relief when Mycroft walked into the embrace and they held one another tight.

"Don't tell Sherlock," Mycroft muttered after some time.

"Of course I won't," said Lestrade gruffly.

As they finally eased apart, Mycroft said, "I am truly sorry for what I've done to you. And I'll take whatever action about the purchase that you want me to. I snatched when all I had to do was talk to you. I..." He shook his head tiredly, "...made a total mess of everything."

Lestrade tucked an arm around him and hugged him tight again. "Yeah, you did." He exhaled noisily and came to a decision. "If I had any moral fibre I'd insist on my name being taken off the Deeds but... I just want to be free to watch you being happy in this house. With me. To salvage my pride, instead of me giving you money you don't want, why don't I pay to furnish this place? We can take our time, fossick for whatever takes our fancy in those antique markets you like dragging me round."

Mycroft gently kissed him on the cheek. "That will be lovely." His eyes searched Lestrade's face. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. Just... Get used to the idea you have someone to talk with now. You've been smoking," Lestrade noted, side-tracked.

"Dutch courage," explained Mycroft, but he failed to find the necessary flippancy. "I was afraid I might have driven you away."

"Let's make a pact. We drop the subject. It's done, we've both said our piece. From now on, you don't try to manipulate me into agreeing to things - serious things, I mean. You can manipulate me into having sex any time you like - and I stop worrying about being a kept man. Deal?"

"Is it that easy?" asked Mycroft, a little colour returned to his face by this time.

"Probably not," conceded Lestrade. "We'll just have to do the best we can. I knew this house would be perfect for us even before I came inside."

"Why?"

"The name, of course."

Mycroft frowned. "There was no name mentioned in the Deeds."

"It's on the plaque over the portico."

"I didn't notice a plaque. But then it was dark when I came here last time."

Lestrade led him outside and pointed up.

1704  
Guardian House

And he watched Mycroft give his first genuine smile of the day.

"I've just thought, is this place really secure for you? When all's said and done, it's a terraced house. Who are our neighbours?" asked Lestrade, as they went back indoors.

"There are government offices on either side."

Lestrade blinked. "You really won't have far to travel to work, will you?"

"It varies," said Mycroft evasively.

"I bet it does. They won't be listening in, will they?"

"No, and we have the devices to ensure that," said Mycroft with decision. 

Lestrade grimaced, then brightened. "We haven't been round the house together yet."

"Nor have we."

Hand in hand, they began to explore and make plans for their new home.

 

 

To be followed by _Smoke and Mirrors_

**Author's Note:**

> If I had any shame I would apologise for the title...


End file.
